The grand halls of Indraprastha were filled with an unusual silence, a silence that carried the weight of a king's contemplation. Yudhishthira, seated upon his ornate throne, seemed lost in thought. His fingers drummed lightly against the armrest, his gaze distant. The words of Rishi Narada echoed in his mind, a melody both alluring and ominous. "Harishchandra attained the purest of worlds through his sacrifice. He became immortal in the annals of Dharma. What, then, is stopping you, Yudhishthira?"

A sigh escaped his lips. The thought had taken root deep within him, weaving itself into his very being. The great kings, the Rajarshis, who had walked the righteous path before him, had attained Swarga. Their names were carved into the stones of time. Was this not his duty? Was this not the path Dharma called him to follow?

And yet... a small voice within him whispered at what cost? But the thought was fleeting. He was a king, and kings did not waver. His resolve hardened, and his decision was made by the time he summoned his advisors and kin. The great hall was abuzz with murmurs as the assembly gathered. His brothers stood by his side, their eyes glinting with the same fire of ambition. Draupadi, regal and watchful, studied her husband with quiet intensity. The kingdom flourished, yet Yudhishthira sought something beyond mere prosperity.

Bhishma, Vidura, and Niyati watched him closely. Something had changed in him, a subtle but undeniable shift. He was beaming, the weight of indecision seemingly lifted. But beneath that joy lay an undertone that only the wise could perceive.

Niyati exhaled deeply, the burden of foresight pressing upon her. Without a word, she turned and left the court. Vidura and Bhishma exchanged glances before following her.

Outside the grand Sabha, beneath the expanse of the Indraprastha sky, Niyati stood in quiet contemplation. The wind carried the scent of lotus and sandalwood, yet she found no comfort in its embrace. Vidura spoke first, his voice as gentle as the breeze. "What troubles you, Putri?"

A sad smile graced Niyati's lips. "I am happy, Kakashree. Truly, I am. But Brata Yudhishthira... wishes to be the next Harishchandra. He believes himself to be Dharma in the flesh. He forgets he is the son of Dharma, not Dharma itself."

She turned to them, her gaze unwavering. "Even the celestials err, yet he thinks himself immune? This is no longer about duty, Kakashree. This is greed for Swarga. And one day, it will lead to his ruin."

Bhishma, ever perceptive, nodded solemnly. "You see clearly, Putri. A king must uphold Dharma, but he must also understand it. Yudhishthira does not act out of wisdom but out of yearning. His path mirrors Raja Harishchandra's, but he forgets there was only one Harishchandra. The burden of extremes is dangerous." His voice grew heavy with concern. "I fear for this kingdom, its people... and this family. If he continues down this path, we may be unable to turn him back."

Vidura's expression darkened with thought. After a moment, he said, "Then let us speak to him. We cannot let him walk blindly into ruin."

Niyati nodded. "Yes. Let us do this."

But before they could turn back, Bhishma raised a hand. "However, we must not stop him from performing the Rajasuya. It will bring glory, not just to him, but to Aryavarta itself."

Niyati exhaled slowly, her gaze far away. "That is his fate, Pitamah. His fate."

By the time they returned, the court was alive with fervour. Yudhishthira sat at the centre, his gaze intense, his voice resolute. "I wish to perform the Rajasuya," he declared, his words carrying the weight of inevitability. "Tell me, my kin, what do you think?"

The air was thick with thought. The Pandavas exchanged glances, their expressions reflecting excitement. The elders remained silent, allowing the moment to stretch. Then, from among them, Kulguru Dhoumya stepped forward. His voice was deep, each word laced with wisdom. "A consecrated king who desires the traits of an emperor and the might of Varuna performs this sacrifice, O King." His eyes met Yudhishthira's. "And you... you are worthy of such a title."

The hall fell into a hushed reverence. "Your well-wishers agree the time is upon us. The Rajasuya requires Kshatriya riches, but you have them. It requires devotion, and you possess it in abundance. When the six sacred fires are lit, and the oblations are offered, you shall rise, not just as a king, but as a universal emperor."

The Sovereign's Dilemma

Yudhishthira's gaze was steady yet contemplative, and his mind bore the weight of an empire's destiny. Summoning the revered Krishna Dwaipayana, the sage whose very presence commanded reverence, Yudhishthira offered his obeisance. Beside him sat Kulguru Dhoumya, his eyes gleaming with the fire of ancient knowledge.

Yudhishthira's voice, steady yet filled with an unspoken longing, broke the silence. "O great sage, O revered one! I yearn to perform the sacred Rajasuya Yajna, the grand ritual befitting only an emperor. How may this be accomplished?"

A knowing silence followed as if the very air held its breath. Vyasa, the sage who had seen the turning of many Yugas, shifted his gaze towards Niyati. The divine sister of Krishna, the embodiment of fate itself, met his eyes and offered a nod, silent yet resounding with cosmic affirmation.

Vyasa's voice, deep and resonant, filled the hall. "O King! You are learned in Dharma. None shall contest your worthiness in performing the Rajasuya. Yet, heed my words carefully, and do not let a desire for Swarga or dominion drive this Yajna. Perform it, not for grandeur nor the intoxication of power, but because Dharma shall flourish when you become the Chakravartin of Aryavarta."

The proclamation hung heavy in the air, rippling through the assembly. The priests and sages nodded in solemn agreement. The Pandavas, the mighty sons of Kunti, applauded these words, for they knew this was not a mere ritual but destiny forging itself through the will of Dharma.

Yet Yudhishthira did not rush to a decision. He sat in deep contemplation, like the still waters of a profound lake, his mind reflecting upon the wisdom of time. "A wise ruler," he mused, "weighs his strength, considers the moment, the place, the resources, and acts with deliberation. A man leaps into the fire of ambition without thought is doomed."

A sacrifice undertaken on mere desire alone could lead to ruin. Though blessed with the touch of Dharma, his hands trembled under the immense weight of this decision. And at that moment, his thoughts turned to Janardana. Hari, the eternal, the immeasurable. The wielder of fate, who walked among men by his own divine will. He, and he alone, knew the course of the universe.

His decision was made. A messenger was sent forth, a swift rider bearing the weight of a kingdom's fate, charging towards the distant land of Dwaraka. The chariot thundered through many kingdoms, across rivers and mountains, until it reached Dvaravati, the city of the Yadavas.

There, seated in serene majesty, was Krishna, the son of Vasudeva, the upholder of cosmic balance. The messenger bowed low before him. "O Madhava! Your Brata, the noble Maharaja Yudhishthira, longs to see you. He seeks your counsel."

Krishna's eyes, vast as the cosmic ocean, flickered with warmth. A knowing smile played upon his lips. "Brata Yudhishthira calls for me?" His voice carried both mirth and gravity.

Turning to his charioteer, Indrasena, Krishna uttered a single command. "Prepare the chariot, Daruka." The wheels of fate had begun to turn.

Upon Indraprastha's golden gates, Krishna Janardhan's arrival was heralded with great joy. Yudhishthira, Bhima, and Vasusena stepped forward, their faces radiant with delight. The eldest Pandava welcomed his beloved cousin with the warmth of a brother, a king's strength, and a disciple's reverence.

Ever the playful heart, Krishna made his way first to Kunti, his eyes filled with the tenderness of a son. He then turned to Subhadra, who greeted him with the affection of a sister. Then, his gaze fell upon Niyati. She met his eyes, her breath steady, yet her soul sighed a quiet storm held within her being. Krishna's smile deepened, enigmatic as ever.

Finally, the younger Pandavas surrounded him, and Krishna turned to his dearest friend, Arjuna. "Have you missed me, Partha?" he teased, his voice laced with affection. Arjuna smirked. "Always." The twins, Nakula and Sahadeva, bowed before him, carrying the respect due to a divine preceptor.

After he had rested in the halls of Indraprastha, surrounded by the love and loyalty of his kin, Yudhishthira approached him once more. Seated beside him, Krishna, the knower of everything, looked upon the Pandava king. "Janardana," Yudhishthira began, "I wish to perform the Rajasuya. But this is not a mere desire. It is a duty. And yet, I know well that the path of kings is treacherous. This cannot be accomplished by will alone." He took a measured breath and continued. "You are omniscient, Janardhana—the lord of all things. My well-wishers have spoken in favour of this Yajna. But I shall not move forward without your guidance." His voice grew softer, introspective. "Many offer bits of advice, but out of friendship, some see not my flaws. Some, out of greed, speak only words that please the ear. Others guide in ways that serve their gains. But you... you are above all motives, beyond desire, beyond anger. You alone can guide me to the path of Dharma." Yudhishthira folded his hands, his voice filled with humility. "Tell me, Janardhana, what is righteous? What is supreme? What shall I do for the welfare of the world?"

The court fell into a heavy silence. All eyes turned to Krishna, waiting for his words, for his decree would shape the destiny of Aryavarta itself.

"O great king," Krishna began, his tender and unwavering voice, "your virtues and wisdom make you worthy of the Rajasuya Yajna. You are the descendant of the Bharata lineage, and though you know everything, some truths still need to be spoken."

Yudhishthira's gaze lifted, meeting Krishna's with the silent intensity of a man who had shouldered the world upon his back. Krishna continued his voice, a melody of divine wisdom and mortal concern. "You see, the Kshatriyas who walk this land today are but remnants of a past purged by Jamadagni's Rama. They reformed themselves, binding their bloodlines with rules and codes that hold the authority of ages. One hundred and one dynasties have risen from the noble lineages of Aila and Ikshvaku, each a testament to kingship, honour, and conquest. The descendants of Yayati and the Bhojas extend across all directions, their name and prosperity revered."

Yudhishthira listened in silence, his heart absorbing each word like a sponge absorbing the ocean. He knew history, but hearing it from Krishna gave it a weight that history books never could. "But," Krishna's voice lowered slightly, "a storm brews beneath the surface of this noble order. One such king, Chaturyu, once held sway over the Middle Kingdom but sought to sow discord among the Kshatriya clans. From this turbulence, one name has risen like an iron hand over the world—Jarāsandha."

At the mention of the tyrant of Magadha, a flicker of unrest passed through Yudhishthira's eyes. Krishna did not pause. "Jarāsandha, inheritor of a vast empire, stands unchallenged in his dominion. He draws strength from allies that the world itself trembles before. Shishupala, the volatile king of Chedi, follows him like a devoted disciple. Vakra of Karusha, who bends the very fabric of Maya in battle, stands in his shadow. And then there are others—Dantavakra, Kalabha, Meghavahana."

The weight of names settled like an anvil upon Yudhishthira's heart. Krishna's words were a narration and a map of the battlefield yet to unfold. "But not all are his," Krishna continued, his voice carrying both sorrow and understanding. "Bhagadatta, your Pitashree's old friend, rules the west like Varuna himself, his divine gem radiating unmatched splendour. Though his head bows before Magadha in word and deed, his heart still carries affection for you like a father who is forced by circumstances but not by will."

Yudhishthira's lips parted slightly, his mind stirring at the implications. Krishna's voice grew softer yet no less intense. "Kakashree Purujit (Brother of Kunti from Kuntibhoja) extends the Kuru lineage's flame to the southwest, a warrior unyielding in his loyalty to you. But not all share this loyalty. The evil king of Chedi, whom I once spared, has bound himself to Jarāsandha. Blinded by arrogance, this man bears my marks upon his body yet stands against me."

A shadow passed over Krishna's serene face, a flicker of something unreadable, perhaps disappointment or the quiet acceptance of an unchanging truth. "And then there is Vasudeva of Pundra, a powerful ruler among the Vangas, Pundras, and Kiratas, who names himself Vasudeva as if he were my equal. But his heart is bound to Magadha, just as the mighty Bhishmaka Chaturyu of Bhoja, a friend of Indra, now finds his alliances dictated by Jarāsandha's iron will."

Krishna sighed, his voice laced with a sorrow only a divine being could understand. "The northern Bhojas, the Shurasenas, the Shalvas, the Panchalas, and many others have abandoned their lands in fear of Jarāsandha. Once proud warriors, the Matsyas and the Samnyastapadas now flee southward, the weight of oppression crushing even the bravest hearts."

The room fell silent. The golden hues of dusk had turned into the deep blues of twilight. Krishna's gaze did not waver. He was not merely telling Yudhishthira of Jarāsandha's strength. He was preparing him. A slow breath left Yudhishthira's lips. The burden was becoming more apparent.

And then Krishna spoke again, his voice quieter now, more intimate. "You know of my Mamashree, Kamsa, and his folly. He sought strength through marriage, binding himself to the granddaughters of Brihadratha's daughters—Asti and Prapti. That alliance made him reckless, arrogant, and cruel, causing suffering to our kin. I ended his tyranny with my own hands but was not without consequence. Jarāsandha, furious at the fall of his son-in-law, became a storm that raged against us."

Yudhishthira could hear the echoes of that war the tremors of Mathura under Jarāsandha's relentless assaults. "Mathura could not fall," Krishna continued. "So, we moved from Mathura to Dwaraka, not in defeat, but in wisdom. We could have stayed and fought endlessly, but there is a time when the wise do not hold their ground merely for pride."

Yudhishthira nodded slowly. He understood this truth: Strength was not merely in battle but in knowing when to step away and when to return stronger. Krishna leaned forward, his voice turning to steel wrapped in silk. "But Brata, the question now is not about the past. It is about the future. About the Rajasuya." The air grew heavier with meaning. "I have told you all this so you understand Jarāsandha stands in the way of your Rajasuya. If you wish to perform it, he must fall."

Yudhishthira exhaled sharply, his heart pounding. He had never sought conquest for the sake of power, yet the weight of Dharma now demanded action. Krishna smiled calmly and assuredly, infinite in his knowing. "You do not have to answer now, O King. But know this: Jarāsandha is not invincible. There is a way. And I shall walk that path with you."

Yudhishthira's Dilemma

Yudhishthira's voice was calm yet laden with the wisdom that had always defined him. He looked toward Krishna, his words measured, his thoughts deep. "You have spoken as none other could, Madhava. None dispels doubts the way you do," he said, his gaze steady. "Every kingdom acts in its interest, seeking prosperity and protection, yet none have attained the title of Emperor. To be a king is to rule a domain, but to be an Emperor is to encompass all."

His eyes glimmered with the weight of contemplation. "The wise do not praise themselves, for true greatness needs no proclamation. One is revered not by his voice but by the testimony of others. This vast earth, adorned with gems and riches, is known only through experience. A man must travel far to understand what is best. And I..." He sighed. "I have always held tranquillity above all, for from tranquillity, true freedom arises."

His voice softened, almost hesitant. "If I pursue this rite, this Rajasuya... will it truly lead to the highest goal? I do not believe so. The wise, those born in every lineage, know this truth. Yet, one among them is sometimes chosen to rise above the rest." He looked toward Krishna, waiting perhaps for guidance, perhaps for reassurance.

Bhima's lips curled into a smirk, his voice a storm brewing with certainty. "A king without enterprise is nothing but an anthill, motionless, waiting to be trampled. Power is not given; it is seized! To rule over a stronger one without a plan is folly. But if the strategy is sound, even the weak may overthrow the mighty."

His eyes gleamed with unshakable belief. "In Keshava, we have wisdom. In me, we have strength. And in Dhananjaya, we have the certainty of victory. Like the three sacred fires, we shall consume Magadha." His fingers clenched into a fist. "Jarāsandha thinks himself invincible? Let us see if his arrogance can withstand the flames of our resolve."

Krishna chuckled, shaking his head as if amused by Bhima's unrelenting spirit. But his eyes his eyes spoke of something more profound. "A child acts without thought, ignorant of consequence. An enemy who lacks wisdom must not be tolerated, for his destruction is a necessity, not an option." His voice darkened. "History tells us of five who became Emperors Youvanashva, by lifting the burden of taxes; Bhagiratha, by offering protection; Kartavirya, through the power of austerities; Bharata, through his sheer might; and Marutta, through boundless wealth."

His expression turned grave. "By the laws of dharma and Artha, Brihadratha's son, Jarāsandha, is the one who must be punished." His words carried the weight of fate itself. "One hundred and one dynasties have refused to bow to him, so he wields force, claiming an empire built on fear. Kings offer him their gems in tribute, yet he is never content. Like a beast who knows only hunger, he preys upon those who should rule beside him."

His voice softened, but it was not kindness, the stillness before a storm. "How can a weaker king rise against him? Those who stand against him are caged and stripped of their dignity like animals in Pashupati's temple. A Kshatriya earns honour through death in battle, not through submission. And thus, we must oppose him." Krishna's eyes met Yudhishthira's unwavering, unreadable. "Jarāsandha has imprisoned eighty-six kings already. He waits for the rest to complete his act of cruelty. The one who stops him will be remembered for eternity. And the one who defeats him... will claim the right to be Emperor."

Yudhishthira's breath was slow and controlled, but his fingers trembled against his throne. "For my selfish desire to be Emperor, how can I send my dearest ones into danger?" His voice was thick with emotion. "Bhima and Arjuna... they are my eyes. And you, Janardhana, you are my mind. What is left of a man when his eyes and mind are gone?"

The fear in his heart surfaced, bare and unguarded. "When you face the invincible walls of Magadha, exhaustion alone might claim you before Jarāsandha does. What, then, will become of your efforts? What good is a plan if it leads only to disaster?" He looked away, ashamed of the weakness in his voice. "O Janardana, hear me. My heart speaks against this path. The Rajasuya is beyond our reach. It is too great a task."

A silence followed heavy, thick, unbroken. And then, Arjuna spoke. His voice was neither angered like Bhima's nor burdened like Yudhishthira's. It was steel unbreakable, untamed. "O King." His eyes burned with a fire that no doubt or hesitation could quench. "I have won the bow, the arrows, the strength, the allies, the land, the fame. Each of these is sought after yet difficult to attain. But I have them."

He stepped forward, his presence commanding. "Men sing of noble lineage, but nothing surpasses power. What use is a birthright if one has no strength to defend it?" His voice grew sharper. "A Kshatriya lives by one truth victory. Even a man who has nothing but valour will triumph. But a man who has everything and no courage? He is already lost."

His hands clenched at his sides. "Mental fortitude, ambition, and fate determine the outcome of war. A king who holds an army but lacks vigilance will be in ruin. That is why the mighty sometimes fall before the weak." He took a breath, his words like arrows loosed from a bow. "Jarāsandha is the greatest challenge before us, and there is no deed nobler than to vanquish him and free those who suffer beneath him. We will be remembered as cowards if we do not attempt this."

His voice softened, but his resolve remained unshaken. "We have the strength. We have the means. Why, then, do you doubt us?" He smiled, but it was not of amusement but of certainty. "Red garments, the robes of ascetics, are easily found by those who seek peace after they have fulfilled their duty. But before that day comes, we must see you crowned Emperor first." He turned to Krishna and Bhima. "We fight. That is the only way forward."

The Chessboard of Destiny

The chamber was silent, the weight of war pressing against the air. Then Krishna's voice, calm yet piercing, broke through the stillness. "Partha has displayed the wisdom of one truly born in the Bharata lineage, the son of Kunti in every essence," he declared, his eyes gleaming with fire only he could bear. "None know the hour of their death whether it shall claim them under the sun's gaze or in the cloak of night. Immortality is a fool's dream if sought by avoiding battle."

He paused, his fingers idly tracing the hilt of his sword. "A warrior's heart is set ablaze only in the act of conquest, guided by dharma. There is no glory in hesitation, only in the clarity of purpose. If two armies stand equal, uncertainty rules the field. But tell me, when has equality ever been real? In war, strength is not measured in numbers but in insight, in the ruthless strike of a sharpened mind."

He turned to Yudhishthira, his voice now a whisper laced with iron. "Should we not then wield wisdom as our weapon? Approach the enemy unseen, strike like the river swallowing the trembling tree, drowning it before it even realizes the flood has come? Strength is not in sheer force but in the mind that bends fate to its will. The wise do not charge headlong into a storm; they become the storm."

A thick and unyielding hush settled before Yudhishthira finally spoke. "Janardana," he began, his voice edged with curiosity. "Who is this Jarāsandha? What manner of power does he wield that even your flame has not consumed him? Should he not have perished like a moth drawn to a raging fire?"

Krishna's expression darkened, his lips curving in a knowing smirk. "Ah, Brata, you seek to know Jarāsandha's strength?" He leaned forward, eyes gleaming with the weight of a tale waiting to be told. "Listen well, for his story is one of fate's cruellest ironies, woven in the womb of Magadha."

The flickering flames cast long shadows as Krishna recounted the past, his voice carrying the echoes of time. "Once, there was a mighty king, Brihadratha, ruler of Magadha. His splendour rivalled that of Indra himself, his strength a force that shook the earth. He was fire in battle, patience in peace, and wealth beyond measure. His name alone sent tremors through kingdoms far and wide." Krishna's voice softened, almost wistful. "Yet, for all his might, one desire burned unfulfilled an heir, a son to bear his lineage into eternity. He sought blessings and performed sacrifices, but the heavens remained silent. Time, that merciless tide, ebbed away his youth. But fate, ever mischievous, does not deny, only delays. And so, a wandering sage arrived, a man of truth and fire, Chandakoushika, son of Kakshivat, born of the great Gautama line."

The room leaned into Krishna's words, the past unfurling before their eyes. "Brihadratha, humbled and desperate, fell at the sage's feet, his heart heavy with sorrow. 'O illustrious one,' he pleaded, 'I have wealth, power, and a kingdom, but what worth are these when my lineage withers? I shall renounce it all, retreat into the forest, for what is a crown if no heir inherits it?'

The sage, seated beneath a mango tree, merely watched. The silence stretched, and then a single mango fell into his lap. Not pierced by beaks, not blemished by time, it was whole and untouched. The rishi, eyes gleaming with unseen mysteries, picked up the fruit and whispered mantras, infusing it with the will of the divine. 'Take this, O King,' the sage declared. 'Your sorrow ends today.' Brihadratha's heart pounded, hope clawing at the edges of his despair. He returned to his palace, the fruit cradled in his hands like the promise of destiny. Yet, bound by his word, his sacred vow to love both his wives equally, he split the fruit in two, giving half to each. Both queens conceived. But when the time came, what was born was no son, no heir, but two half-bodies, each with a single eye, arm, and leg—a grotesque mockery of life.

The queens recoiled, their hearts sinking into an abyss of horror. Trembling, they clutched each other, staring at the fragmented remnants of their hope. The whispers spread, the court turned cold, and grief swept through the palace like a funeral dirge. Darkness clung to the royal chambers, thick with despair. The cries of the two queens had long faded, replaced by a silence more suffocating than grief itself. The midwives, their hands trembling, stole through the back gate, carrying with them not one but two lifeless halves of what should have been a child, a prince, a future.

But destiny had not yet spoken its final word. A shadow moved. Jara, a Rakshasi of the wild, lurked in the darkness, her crimson eyes scanning the abandoned flesh. A creature of the night, she feasted on blood and marrow, yet tonight, something stopped her. A force beyond hunger. Beyond instinct. She crouched low, her gnarled fingers reaching for the discarded halves. "Two pieces," she muttered, tilting her head. "Easier to carry together."

When her calloused palms pressed the halves together, the air crackled with unseen power. A tremor ran through the earth. A light, blinding and ethereal, burst forth. Before she stood a child, whole and perfect, his body iron-hard like the vajra. His copper-red hands clenched into fists, slipping into his mouth as a roar erupted from his tiny chest like the first rumbling of a storm-laden sky. Jara staggered back, her breath stolen. This was no ordinary birth. This was fate reshaping itself before her very eyes. The roar echoed through the palace walls. Once drenched in mourning, the queen's chambers now stirred with confusion. Unbidden milk flowed from the breasts of the two queens, their bodies responding to a bond severed too soon.

With frantic steps, they rushed outside, their sorrow momentarily forgotten. The king, Brihadratha, followed, his heart pounding. And there he was—their son—alive—whole. Jara watched as the two queens fell to their knees, gathering the infant into their trembling arms. Their tears were now of disbelief rather than despair. Their lips brushed his forehead, blessing him with the milk of life and whispering words only a mother could understand.

The Rakshasi knew. She could not take this child. What is a Rakshasi to a king who has longed for a son? What is hunger to a fate so powerfully woven? Her form shimmered, shedding the grotesque visage of a flesh-eater to reveal a woman of unearthly beauty, her golden skin radiant under the moon's gaze. "O Brihadratha," she said, her voice both fierce and gentle. "This child is yours. A gift not from me but from fate itself. He was born of your two queens, cast away by the hands of fear but saved by my own. Take him, for he belongs to you."

The king, awestruck, fell to his knees. "Who are you?" he breathed. "You are no Rakshasi... you are a goddess herself, golden as the womb of a lotus. Speak, I beg you!" Jara smiled, shaking her head. "I am no goddess, O king. I am but a humble Rakshasi living within your kingdom. But this night, I was merely an instrument. The fate of this child was never mine to decide. It was always written in the stars."

With those parting words, she vanished into the wind, her duty complete. Thus, the boy was named Jarāsandha, the one Jara joined.

Magadha rejoiced. The streets came alive, celebrating as Brihadratha commanded a grand festival honouring the one who had saved his son. The child, blessed by fate and strengthened by the impossible, grew into a warrior of unmatched power, his presence akin to a fire eternally fed by sacred offerings. Time passed, and the tremendous ascetic Chandakoushika returned to Magadha.

Brimming with devotion, the king rushed to greet him, offering gifts and sacred waters. With humility, he placed his son before the sage. "O revered one," Brihadratha said, "this is the child who defied fate. He is a gift from the heavens. I offer him to you and my kingdom, should you wish."

The rishi smiled, his eyes twinkling with divine sight. He had already seen the boy's future, written in the celestial scrolls of time. "O king," he said, "your son is destined for greatness. No king shall rival his strength. Like the mountains that withstand the rivers, no weapon, divine or mortal, shall wound him. His presence will cast a shadow over all who dare oppose him, like the sun eclipsing the feeble light of the stars."

Brihadratha listened, his heart swelling with pride. "But heed this, O king," the rishi continued, his voice carrying the weight of prophecy. "As the rivers flood the oceans, he will claim the riches of the kings of the earth. Like the land that bears both good and evil, he will uphold the order of the four varnas with unshakable might. No ruler shall escape his dominion, for as life bends to the breath within, so shall they bow to him."

A silence fell.

Krishna's gaze was steady, his words laced with a calm that carried the weight of time itself. "With his kin and followers, the ruler of Magadha returned to his city and placed Jarāsandha on the throne. King Brihadratha, weary of worldly pleasures, sought the path of renunciation. Alongside his two wives, he stepped away from the grandeur of the court and into the solitude of the forests, embracing a life of austerities." His voice held a certain reverence as he spoke of the old king's journey, a tale of duty, sacrifice, and transcendence.

He continued, "Having entrusted his son with the kingdom, Brihadratha and his wives relinquished all attachments. And after years of penance, they ascended to the heavenly realms by their devotion. But the son he left behind—Jarāsandha—was not one to bow before fate. With his strength, he subdued the kings of Bharata." Krishna's eyes darkened slightly as he uttered the name of the mighty ruler.

"There were those who stood beside him—Hamsa and Dibhika, warriors beyond mortal reckoning. No weapon could bring them down. Their counsel was unmatched, and their skill in war was unparalleled. Yet they fell... in the battle against me." His words were not laced with arrogance but a quiet certainty, a statement of fact. "The powerful Kukuras, Andhakas, and Vrishnis chose to ignore Jarāsandha, for that was the wisest course."

A brief silence followed before Krishna spoke again, his tone shifting. "But the time has come," he declared, his voice rich with finality. "Hamsa and Dibhaka are gone. Kamsa and his advisers have met their end. Now, the path is clear—Jarasandha must fall."

He turned to the assembled men, his gaze resting on Yudhishthira. "No army can defeat him. The gods and asuras could not overpower him in a conventional battle. But there is a way he can be vanquished in a duel, in a battle of breath and endurance. Strategy lies within me, strength within Bhima, and valour within Arjuna." His words wove a vision of an inevitable triumph. "We are like three consuming fires. If we stand before him alone, he will not resist the challenge. Out of his arrogance, he will choose to face Bhima."

A knowing smile played on Krishna's lips. "Bhima is his equal—nay, his death. He shall be to Jarāsandha. What time is it to all things mortal? If you trust my judgment, Brata, then delay no further. Entrust Brata Bhima and Partha to me."

Yudhishthira listened, his gaze moving between Krishna, Bhima, and Arjuna. The two brothers stood beside the dark lord, smiling, tugging at the corners of their lips. They knew. They were ready. A deep breath escaped Yudhishthira's lips before he spoke, his words steady and resolute. "Janardana... do not speak to me like you are not our refuge." His voice held both reverence and an unshakable trust. "You are the lord of the Pandavas. We stand with you. What you say is the path of truth. You never guide those whom Lakshmi has forsaken. As I heed your words, I already see Jarāsandha fall. I see the kings freed. I see the Rajasuya within my grasp."

He clasped his hands together, bowing his head slightly. "You are a man of swift action. Act now so that I may complete this duty for the world." A shadow of unspoken emotion flickered across his face, but his words remained steady. "Without the three of you, my very existence is hollow, like a man bereft of dharma, Artha, and kama." His voice grew softer. "There are no Pandavas without Shouri. And there is no Shouri without the Pandavas."

Yudhishthira's gaze lifted, meeting Krishna's eyes. "There is nothing in this world you and Arjuna cannot conquer. And Bhima is supreme in strength. What can he not accomplish when he stands with the two of you?"

His words carried wisdom beyond mere faith. "When led with wisdom, even the mightiest forces accomplish the impossible. Strength without direction is blind. The wise do not let water stagnate—they channel it toward the lowest ground. Likewise, the strategy must lead strength to its purpose. And so, for this task, we seek refuge in Janardhana, the knower of all policies."

His voice rang with finality. "Janardhan's strength lies in his wisdom. He knows the way, the method, and the means. If one seeks to accomplish one's objective, one must place him at the forefront. For victory to be ours, let Partha follow Janardhana. And let Bhima follow Dhananjaya. Strategy, strength, and victory shall find their perfect alignment."

A charged silence followed, the weight of his words settling over them like the calm before a great storm. Destiny had been called forth. Now, it awaited its unfolding.

A Test of Intentions

As the winds whispered about an impending conquest, Krishna, Bhima, and Arjuna, flanked by their trusted ally, Varshneya, set forth toward Magadha. Their departure, though decisive, left behind a silence that felt like an unfinished verse in a grand epic.

Moments later, an unexpected trio entered Yudhishthira's chamber: Niyati, Vidura, and Bhishma. The king, accustomed to their wisdom but not their sudden arrival, straightened in surprise. "Pitamah, Vidura, Niyati... this is an unexpected visit," Yudhishthira greeted them, curiosity lining his words. "Janardhana just left, guiding my brothers toward their destined battle. He has assured me Jarāsandha's fall is near, and the path to Rajasuya is clear."

Bhishma, his gaze both proud and pensive, nodded. "That pleases me, Yudhishthira. The Rajasuya is a great undertaking... but that is not why we are here."

Before another word could be exchanged, Niyati stepped forward, her presence commanding yet ethereal, as if she walked between fate and free will. "Brata Yudhishthira," she spoke without prelude, "I have come to tell you one thing. Rajasuya is already woven into the threads of your fate, and you will complete it. But intentions shape destiny, not mere actions. Are you pursuing this yajna to uphold righteousness, or do you seek to become the next Harishchandra, a king defined by his unyielding adherence to Dharma at the cost of all else?"

Her voice, sharp as a blade yet laden with an ancient knowing, unsettled Yudhishthira. "If it is the latter," she continued, her eyes unwavering, "stop this now. We could defeat Jarāsandha and take his territories under our rule. But do not forget what I told you before: you are not Dharma himself. You are his son. Do not lose yourself in this illusion."

Yudhishthira's patience, a virtue as enduring as the mountains, cracked like ice under a rising sun. His hands clenched at his sides. "Why do you always say this, Niyati?" he demanded, his voice edged with frustration. "I know I am not Dharma! Why must you constantly remind me?"

Bhishma's features flickered with surprise. Yudhishthira, the embodiment of restraint, had raised his voice. "Yudhishthira," Bhishma interjected, his voice a quiet warning.

But Niyati only smiled, though there was no mirth in it. "Greed has already sown its seed in your heart," she said, her tone neither accusing nor comforting. "You claim to follow Dharma, but is it for righteousness, or is it for Swarga? This arrogance, believing that you can never err, will be your downfall."

The accusation struck deep, and Yudhishthira's breath hitched. "I have done nothing sinful," he defended, his voice laced with desperation and defiance. "I know the path between right and wrong, Niyati. Believe me."

Niyati sighed a sound of inevitability, of knowing beyond mortal foresight. "Your greatest test is near, Brata," she murmured, her words heavier than the weight of a kingdom.

Yudhishthira stilled. He knew. He had known since the day he met her. The test she had always spoken of was no longer a distant storm. It was near, waiting, inevitable. Their eyes met, and he saw a truth he wasn't ready to face in that gaze. "It is very near, actually," Niyati affirmed. "And on that day, I will see whether you have truly learned to distinguish right and wrong."

As Niyati stepped out, her presence still rippling through the air like an untamed current, Bhishma and Vidura followed suit. Their footsteps echoed in the corridor's stillness, but Bhishma broke the silence first. "Putri," his voice was low, edged with an urgency rare for the Grand Sire of Kuru lineage. "It has been ages since you first spoke of this test; this trial will decide everything for Yudhishthira. What is this test regarding?"

Niyati halted, her gaze shifting between the two men who had carried the burden of the Kuru dynasty for decades. When she finally spoke, her voice held a weight that neither Bhishma nor Vidura could ignore. "This is not just a test for him, Pitamah," she murmured, her words sharp and deliberate. "This is the test of the Kuru family itself."

Bhishma's eyes narrowed. Vidura remained silent, waiting, sensing that what she was about to reveal would shake the foundation of what they had always believed to be inevitable. Niyati exhaled slowly before continuing, "You know, Bhishma, I have always known we would stand at this crossroads. From the beginning, I wanted to see what the Kuru family would do when confronted with this moment. And now, the days are nearing. That one test will determine everything. It will elevate this lineage to unknown heights or bring a downfall no one has ever witnessed."

A stillness settled over them, heavier than the weight of time itself. Bhishma and Vidura, men of foresight and wisdom, stood stunned. She let them absorb her words before adding, "And make no mistake, both of you will be tested as well."

Bhishma's breath was steady, but his knuckles had turned white against the hilt of his sword. Vidura's brows furrowed, but he, too, said nothing. Then Niyati's gaze fell upon Bhishma, her eyes burning with something more profound than divinity. "Especially you, Pitamah."

Bhishma inhaled sharply. "Trust me when I say this: the days are near. No matter how righteous you have been, this test will divide your existence into two: Bhishma before and Bhishma after." She reached out, placing her hand firmly on his shoulder. For all his strength, Bhishma felt a tremor pass through him, not from fear but from a knowing. "Do not fail me," she whispered, her voice barely audible yet echoing like a divine command: " "Do not fail your Mata Ganga. Do not fail your Pitashree."

Bhishma's throat tightened. It was rare for him to feel human and vulnerable, but he was not the invincible warrior or Guru Devavrata at that moment. He was simply a son, carrying the weight of his ancestors, knowing that the trial ahead was not one he could face with a sword.

Then, Niyati's gaze shifted to Vidura, who had remained silent, processing everything she had said. "And you," she said, her voice regaining its sharpness. "Remember the three wishes you can ask of Dritarashtra."

Vidura's eyes widened. "You possess the greatest negotiation skills the world has ever seen," Niyati continued, unwavering. "That day, use them. Compel it. If you falter, Vidura, if you hesitate, then know that you have failed your purpose in this avatar of yours." The words struck like a thunderbolt. Vidura's breath hitched. "My avatar?" he repeated, confusion laced in his tone. "What avatar?"

Niyati turned her gaze toward Bhishma. Bhishma, who had remained as still as a statue until now, sighed. His voice was softer this time, almost weary. "Nothing, Vidura. You may leave now." Vidura's confusion deepened, but he did not question further. With a lingering glance, he turned and walked away, his mind heavy with unspoken truths.

As his footsteps faded into the distance, Bhishma exhaled, the weight of a long-held promise pressing against his chest. "Putri," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "I have given my word to Rishi Vyasa that I will never reveal the truth of Vidura to anyone. I request you do not speak of it until the end."

Niyati's lips curled into the faintest smile, not of amusement nor defiance but of understanding. "I know," she replied. Then, she turned her gaze skyward. With all its struggles and tribulations, the mortal world was only a passing phase in her existence. Her actual home was her celestial expanse above the realm where fates were woven and undone. And for a fleeting moment, Bhishma wondered if she longed to return.

Niyati walked out of the palace, her steps unhurried yet filled with an unseen urgency. The weight of what would come pressed against her, but she did not falter. In a swift, seamless motion, she resumed the cosmic Dhyana she had left behind ages ago. Every night, she and Yuyutsu ventured into the celestial realm, ensuring the fabric of existence remained intact. Yet now, the time had come for something far more profound. This was not just a meditation. It was an immersion into the essence of creation, a desperate attempt to tip the scales before fate could seal its decree.

At the shore of the sacred Yamuna, in the hallowed ashram of Maharishi Atri and Maharishi Vashishtha, Niyati seated herself in stillness. Her breath slowed, and her consciousness expanded beyond the earthly plane. The two venerable sages of the Saptarishi clan stood at a distance, observing. When their wise eyes met, they sighed, burdened by the truths they alone understood. Atri broke the silence first. "Mata is doing everything in her will to stop what must come." His voice carried no doubt, only solemn recognition. "But as she rightly said, Yudhishthira craves a place in Indra's Sabha. He seeks to walk the path of Raja Harishchandra to be the embodiment of absolute Dharma."

Vashishtha nodded, his expression heavy. "No one can escape what is destined, Maharishi Atri. Mata has changed many things, yet she admitted that this is a game she plays with her existence. Fate is woven through human choices, and if mankind insists on walking toward destruction, then even Mata's intervention has limits." His voice dropped, grave with an unspoken understanding. "I fear Yudhishthira's curse is beginning to unfold."

A rustling behind them made them turn. Guru Mata Anasuya and Mata Arundhati walked toward them, their faces lined with concern. Anasuya's voice trembled as she spoke. "I fear for Putri Draupadi. Will the Cheer Haran happen again?" A deep sorrow flickered in her ancient eyes. She had seen too much and endured too much. "I have blessed her," she continued, a quiet desperation in her words. "I cannot let it happen. Before, I had not met her. But now, she is my daughter. I cannot..."

Her voice faltered. Mata Arundhati gently held her hands, offering silent comfort. Vashishtha, though sympathetic, did not soften his tone. "Bhagini," he addressed Anasuya, "you blessed Devi Sita too. Yet what had to happen happened. Because Adharma had to be destroyed, Ravana had to die." His eyes darkened as he looked toward the horizon as if he could already see the storm approaching. "The same holds now. In Dvapara Yuga, Adharma will not be left unchecked. Kaliyug must learn from what is to come. This age will bear witness to something never before written in the scriptures. And we have Putri Sharvisha; her presence alone will shape Dharma in ways no one understands."

Arundhati's voice wavered. "Will Devi Niyati change Draupadi's fate?" Atri inhaled deeply, his silence stretching into eternity before he finally answered. "That is something only Mata knows."

Vashishtha, however, straightened. "We must send word to Yudhishthira and his family. They must know that Mata has entered her deep Yoga Dhyana."

The message was sent. It reached the palace first to Draupadi and Kunti and then to Yudhishthira, Sahadeva, Nakula, Vasusena, Valandhara, Subhadra, Chitrangada, and Devika, who were gathered together. Draupadi's brows furrowed. "Mata, what is Yoga Dhyana? What does that mean?"

Nakula, who had seen this before, spoke with quiet reverence. "Niyati enters this state whenever a major shift is about to take place. I have seen it twice, once before the fire at Varnavat and again before our marriage, Nityayuvani." His voice lowered. "That Dhyana is so deep... she does not wake for hours, days... sometimes, weeks." Sahadeva's sharp mind immediately grasped the implications. "If she has entered Dhyana again, then what does this mean? Are our lives going to change again?"

A heavy silence fell over them. Vasusena turned to Yudhishthira, his gaze unwavering. "Do you know anything about this?" Yudhishthira exhaled, his fingers tightening around the edge of his dhoti. Then, with measured patience, he explained everything that had transpired between him and Niyati.

The moment he finished, Vasusena's face darkened. His voice, laced with disbelief and fury, cut through the room. "Why would you do this?"

The sudden anger in his tone made everyone turn toward him. "She has always ensured our well-being, Yudhishthira. Until now, has any harm come to us when she guided us?" Vasusena's breath was heavy, his restraint thinning. "Then why? Is Niyati telling the truth? Are you performing the Rajasuya Yagna because you desire a place in Swarga?"

A shiver ran through the room. The accusation was weighty and unforgiving. Yudhishthira lifted his gaze, his face etched with sorrow. His voice, however, did not waver. "Jyeshta," he murmured, addressing Vasusena with deep emotion. "How can you say this to me?"

His chest rose and fell as he gathered his thoughts, pain lacing his words. "I have always respected you. I will always respect you." He shook his head. "But this..." His eyes burned with quiet conviction. "I know Dharma. Why would I sin? Greed is a sin, and I am not a part of it. Understand this." He took a step back, his expression softening yet holding its ground. "And we have Janardhana with us. Everything will be fine."

With that, Yudhishthira turned and walked away, his figure disappearing into the dim corridors of the palace. The silence he left behind was unsettling. Draupadi and Devika exchanged glances, unspoken questions flickering between them. "What is happening to him?" Neither had an answer.

The March of Destiny

The three figures strode forward, their forms glowing in the soft light of dawn. Draped in the modest attire of Brahmanas who had completed their studies, they carried the weight of something far more significant than scholarship: the unshakable resolve of warriors. Krishna, his gaze as deep as the cosmic ocean, walked with effortless grace beside Arjuna, whose movements were fluid like the wind that carried arrows to their mark. Bhima, a titan among men, walked at the forefront, his presence a force unto itself.

Their well-wishers had bid them farewell affectionately, but their hearts burned with something darker wrath. Wrath at the oppression of their kin. Wrath at the arrogance of Jarāsandha. Their anger had transformed them into celestial flames, Krishna like the sun, Arjuna like the moon, and Bhima like an all-consuming fire. Anyone who saw Krishna and Arjuna standing united in purpose, with Bhima leading their charge, would believe Jarāsandha was already as good as dead. They were more than just warriors. They were lords of dharma, Artha, and kama—the architects of fate.

As they departed the land of the Kurus, they traversed the wilds of Kurujangala, crossing the sacred waters of Padmasara, Kalakuta, Gandaki, Shona, and Sadanira, each river born of the same ancient mountain. They waded through the pristine currents of Sarayu before setting their sights on the kingdom of Eastern Koshala. The road carried them further, past Mithila, beyond the rivers Mala and Charmanvati, until they reached the indomitable region of Magadha.

Kurava trees stood like sentinels at the borders of the land, whispering secrets of a kingdom untouched by defeat. Mount Goratha loomed before them, a guardian of the city beyond. As they ascended its heights, their eyes fell upon the heart of Magadha, a town brimming with cattle, overflowing with water, and adorned with groves as far as the eye could see.

Krishna's voice was calm, yet it carried the weight of destiny. "Brata Bhima, Partha," he said, his eyes scanning the city, "behold the great and beautiful Magadha. Prosperous, untouched by disease, its mansions rise high like the peaks of mountains. Five great mountains stand as its protectors: Vaihara, Varaha, Vrishabha, Rishigiri, and Chaitya. Their slopes, thick with shade-giving trees, form a natural citadel around Girivraja. The scent of lodhra blossoms lingers here, intoxicating lovers and dreamers alike."

He paused, his gaze sharp as he recounted the past. "It was here that the great sage Gautama, unwavering in his vows, fathered mighty sons through Ushinara's daughter of the shudra lineage. Gautama's reverence for this land was returned by kings who honoured him, so he blessed the Magadha lineage. Long ago, the kings of Anga, Vanga, and other mighty realms sought his guidance and found peace under his shadow. Look there, Partha. Do you see the priyala trees swaying near Gautama's abode? They have witnessed centuries of history, just like the charming lodhras."

He gestured toward a sacred grove, his voice taking on a hushed reverence. "This land was once home to Arbuda and Shakravapi, serpents of terrifying power. Here lived the mighty Svastika and the supreme serpent Mani. Because of Mani's presence, the clouds never forsaken Magadha, and its skies are always rich with rain. The blessings of Gautama and Koushika linger in this place, but..." Krishna's eyes darkened. "Jarāsandha believes these blessings will sustain his might forever. Today, we will break that illusion."

His words, though spoken softly, carried the force of a storm. "We will strike him down, and his pride will crumble into the dust beneath our feet."

There was nothing left to be said. The three warriors pressed forward, their steps unwavering as they neared the city of Magadha. Girivraja, the impregnable citadel, rose before them—majestic and unyielding. Within its walls, the people lived in joy, their city teeming with life, with celebrations painting the streets in the colours of festivity. The four varnas flourished in harmony, oblivious to the storm about to befall their king.

Avoiding the colossal mountain that formed the gateway to the city, the three warriors moved with calculated precision. That mountain had witnessed history. Brihadratha's lineage had worshipped there, and their ancestors offered homage at its base. There, Brihadratha had slain the bean-eating ascetic Rishabha and, from his hide, had crafted three mighty kettledrums.

When those drums sounded, divine flowers had once rained from the heavens. But today, another sound would echo through Magadha: the sound of destruction.

With unwavering resolve, Krishna, Arjuna, and Bhima arrived at Chaitya, the sacred peak beloved by Magadha's people. To set foot upon it was to place one's heel upon Jarāsandha's pride. The mountain stood, unshaken by time, wreathed in garlands and offerings of devotion. Then, with a might unmatched, the three warriors brought it down. The peak, so ancient, so revered, crumbled beneath their strength. And as the dust of the fallen mountain settled, the gates of Magadha lay before them open, unguarded, inevitable. They stepped forward.

Jarāsandha sat atop his grand elephant, a mountain of muscle and might, as the sacred fire was carried in solemn circles around him. The air was thick with the heady scent of burning ghee, the chants of priests echoing in rhythmic waves. He was the sovereign of Magadha, a feared and respected ruler, his power towering over the lands like the Chaitya mountain his city boasted.

Yet, amidst the ceremonial grandeur, three figures entered his kingdom: Krishna, Bhima, and Dhananjaya. They came not as kings or warriors but as humble snakes, the marks of their vow evident in their unarmed presence. They walked through the city, their keen eyes absorbing the prosperity before them, streets brimming with wealth, shops overflowing with fragrant garlands, silks, and delicacies.

The three did not blend into the crowd. They stood out with impossibly broad shoulders, arms carved with the strength of a thousand warriors, bodies smeared with sandalwood and aloe paste, glistening like monolithic pillars of stone. With an air of defiance, they plucked garlands from a garland maker, the flowers draping their powerful forms as if nature bowed to them.

Adorned in their colourful garments and decorated with the finest earrings, they strode toward the palace of Jarāsandha not as guests or beggars but as predators sizing up the pen of their prey. The people of Magadha gasped in awe. These were no ordinary men. They were warriors in disguise, lions walking among cattle. They passed unchallenged through halls teeming with courtiers and warriors, their presence parting the throng like a blade through silk. The king's chamber awaited them, its opulence only adding to the anticipation of the battle that loomed beyond words.

Jarāsandha rose from his throne with unwavering pride and unshakable customs. He was a warrior-king, but above all, a man of dharma. He welcomed them, offering water for their feet, honeyed drinks, and the gifts due to any guest, for such was his vow. Even if a guest arrived at night, a king must rise to greet them. Yet, as his gaze travelled over these peculiar visitors, these supposed Brahmanas whose arms bore the unmistakable marks of bowstrings, whose very presence radiated power, his brows furrowed. Something was amiss.



Still, he spoke with the dignity of a ruler who feared nothing. "O revered ones, may health and prosperity be yours." His voice was firm, a subtle challenge woven beneath his words. The three warriors met his gaze in silence, their expressions unreadable. The king gestured. "Please, be seated."

They sat, glowing like three sacrificial fires, their presence altering the very air of the chamber. Jarāsandha's tone shifted, laced now with the weight of scrutiny. "This much I know nowhere in this world do snataka brahmanas bear garlands and fragrant pastes as you do," he declared, his eyes narrowing. "Who are you truly? Your arms betray the hands of warriors, not ascetics. You claim one path, yet your attire speaks another. Truth is the ornament of kings, so speak it now."

His voice turned sharper. "You have broken the Chaitya mountain and entered my halls in an unfit way for guests. Is this arrogance or a deliberate insult? A brahmana's strength lies in his words, yet you stand before me silently, declining even the courtesy I offer." His gaze darkened. "Why have you come here?"

Krishna, his voice ever as calm as an ocean before a storm, finally spoke. His words were neither rushed nor hesitant, but each carried the weight of inevitability. "O King of Magadha," he said, his tone smooth as silk yet unyielding as steel, "it is known that not only Brahmanas but also Kshatriyas and Vaishyas may observe the snataka vows. Laws, both general and specific, rule the world. A Kshatriya, following his dharma, will always find prosperity."

He smiled though the warmth in it was veiled. "We wear these garlands because fortune favours those who claim it." A flicker of amusement crossed Krishna's gaze as he continued. "A Kshatriya's valour is in his arms, not in the sharpness of his tongue. His words do not boast, for his strength is already known. O son of Brihadratha, the might of Kshatriyas has been ordained by Brahma and placed in our arms. If you doubt it, behold, you shall see it today."

A silence followed, thick with unspoken understanding. Krishna's voice was unshaken, yet his words carried a challenge sharper than any blade. "The wise enter a well-wisher's home through its gates," he added, his eyes holding Jarāsandha's with unflinching steadiness. "But when it is the house of an enemy, they do not use the same path." He leaned forward slightly, his following words deliberate. "That is why we did not enter through your gate." The weight of truth settled over the chamber. "We do not accept the homage of an enemy. That is our eternal vow."

Jarāsandha did not react angrily. No, he was a king; kings do not lash out without reason. Instead, he tilted his head, considering the words carefully, dissecting each syllable. "I do not recall," he said slowly, "that I have ever wronged you." There was no falsehood in his voice, only curiosity laced with the confidence of a ruler who saw no crime in his actions. "I have searched my memories, yet I find no evil act committed against you." His sharp gaze flickered over the three warriors. "If I have no harm, why do you stand before me as enemies? Speak with honesty, for that is the law of the truthful."

Then, with a voice edged with something resembling both amusement and warning, he added, "To strike an innocent man is a violation of dharma. Even if one wins such a battle, his mind shall never be at peace." He sat back, watching them, waiting for their answer. The weight of an unspoken battle hung between them, as sure as the dawn that follows night.

Krishna's gaze, piercing like a blade of celestial wisdom, met Jarāsandha's defiant eyes. His voice, calm yet carrying the weight of cosmic truth, resounded through the halls of the Magadha king. "There is one among us, bound by his lineage, who has come to fulfil its sacred duty. Arjuna, Bhima, and I have opposed you at his behest, O King! You have abducted righteous kshatriyas, warriors bound by honour and dharma. And yet, you ask if you are innocent. You, who oppress kings and seek to sacrifice them to Mahadev, do you not see the darkness of your deeds?"

Krishna's voice neither wavered nor rose in anger, but the authority in his words carried a storm within them. "O son of Brihadratha, your actions cast a shadow upon dharma itself. Tell me, have human sacrifices ever been a path of righteousness? Since when has a king begun treating his varna, his kin, as mere cattle for slaughter? Is there a mind more twisted than yours?"

Jarāsandha's fists clenched, but he held his silence, his pride refusing to bow before words. Krishna continued, relentless as the tide. "We are bound to those who suffer. We are here to stand against you, the one who seeks to destroy his kind. Do you believe no man among the Kshatriyas can oppose you? Such arrogance blinds you. Know this: every Kshatriya, born of noble blood, would embrace death in battle rather than submit to tyranny. War is our sacrifice, our yajna. Victory, the gateway to heaven. Honour, the path to immortality."

Krishna's voice carried a divine finality as he declared: "You are not invincible, Jarāsandha! You are mighty only if you remain ignorant of others who match your strength. But we, the warriors who stand before you, Shouri Hrishikesha, Vayuputr Bhima, and Indraputra Arjuna, challenge you today. Either release the captive kings or prepare to meet Yama in his abode!"

A thick silence with destiny's weight settled over the chamber. Then, Jarāsandha let out a slow, mocking laugh. "Who among you stands unconquered by me?" his voice dripped scornfully. "Is there a king I have not vanquished? The dharma of a Kshatriya is to bring others under his sway through strength! You say these kings suffer, but they were defeated in battle, fair and just. They are mine to command, and I shall do with them as I see fit!"

His eyes locked onto Krishna's. "And you think you can threaten me into submission?" Jarāsandha's voice thundered through the hall. "Never! I do not yield out of fear. I will fight army against army, one against one, or even against all three of you together! However you wish it, I stand ready!"

With that, the Magadha king turned, and his decision was made. He ordered his son, Sahadeva, to ascend the throne should fate decree his fall. As the battle preparations commenced, a flicker of memory crossed Jarāsandha's mind: the fallen generals, Koushika and Chitrasena, once the mighty Hamsa and Dibhika, who perished in battle against Krishna. A chill passed through him, but he crushed it beneath his pride.

Meanwhile, Krishna stood still, his eyes reflecting the vast expanse of fate. He had foreseen this moment, the destined end of Jarāsandha at Bhima's hands. The divine wheel of dharma had begun to turn. Madhusudana, the slayer of demons and Haladhara's younger brother had no intention of striking the final blow. That honour belonged to Bhima, the son of Vayu, the very embodiment of raw power.

The Demise of the Tyrant

The grand hall of Magadha trembled under the weight of destiny as Krishna, ever the eloquent diplomat, stepped forward, his voice as steady as the eternal flow of the Yamuna. His eyes locked onto the formidable King of Magadha, Jarāsandha, who stood with the arrogance of one undefeated. "O King," Krishna's voice resonated through the chamber, "amongst the three of us, whom do you desire to face? Who shall prepare to meet you in combat?"

Jarāsandha's gaze, like smouldering embers, let out a short, humourless laugh. "It shall be Bhima." His words were not a mere choice but an assertion, a declaration of war against the one warrior whose strength could match his own. His priests scurried to his side, anointing him with sacred herbs, their incantations rising like smoke, weaving a veil of invincibility around their king.

Stripping himself of his crown, Jarāsandha tied his thick, untamed hair into a warrior's knot. He rose, an ocean breaking through the confines of its shore, ready to swallow everything in its path. Bhima, the son of Vayu, stood tall, his muscles rippling like coiled serpents waiting to strike. His very presence exuded an ominous promise of destruction. The Magadha king, unshaken, let a smirk dance upon his lips.

"Bhima," he said, his voice carrying both challenge and grim acknowledgement, "if I am to fall today, let it be to a warrior of superior might."

And then, without another word, he lunged. Like two cosmic forces colliding, they clashed. Their bare arms slamming against each other echoed like Indra's thunderbolts striking the peaks of Meru. The force of their blows sent gusts of wind howling through the city, making onlookers shudder. They grappled, their fingers digging into each other's flesh, their shoulders smashing together like mountain crags in a violent quake.

It was not a battle. It was annihilation in the making. They seized, they threw, they struck with fists harder than iron. Blood dripped, sweat poured, and bones groaned under the sheer force of their strikes. The earth trembled beneath their fury. Crowds gathered to witness the fight found themselves stepping back, the raw violence too much to bear.

This was no mere wrestling match. This was a duel of demons. The battle raged ceaselessly. One day. Two days. A week. Ten days. Neither warrior yielded. Neither flinched.

The people of Magadha no longer watched in awe. They watched in terror. How could men endure such pain and still rise again? By the thirteenth day, Jarāsandha's breath grew heavier, his strikes slower. But Bhima, though weary, remained an unrelenting tempest. On the fourteenth night, as darkness swallowed the sky, the once-mighty king of Magadha faltered.

Krishna, watching with keen eyes, chose this moment to speak. "Brata Bhima, do not crush a weakened enemy. If pressed down now, he might surrender his soul entirely. Let him fight as your equal."

Bhima did not need further instruction. He had seen it Jarāsandha's weakness. A wicked gleam flashed in his eyes. He stepped forward. Breathing heavily, Bhima turned to Krishna. "Keshava, my loincloth is girded. This wretched tyrant shall not see another sunrise." Krishna nodded, his voice a whisper of fire. "Then unleash what the celestials have bestowed upon you."

Bhima grinned, a predator about to deliver the final blow. He grabbed Jarāsandha by the waist, lifted him high, and spun him twice and a hundred times. The king's body became a blur, his strength useless against the whirlwind force of the Pandava.

And then Bhima broke him. With a force that could shatter mountains, he slammed Jarāsandha's spine over his knee, the sickening crack of bone splitting the air with a scream. A roar. And then—silence.

Bhima, his breath ragged, his body drenched in the sweat of battle, let loose a triumphant cry. The very air trembled. The people of Magadha gasped as the force of his victory sent ripples through their very souls. Pregnant women clutched their bellies in horror as the vibrations of Bhima's roar caused them to miscarry. The citizens looked at each other in panic. Was the very earth breaking apart? Was the Himalayas itself crumbling?

They had never heard such a sound before and never wished to listen to it again. As the city of Magadha stood frozen in horror, Bhima, Krishna, and Arjuna left their fallen foe at the palace gates. The storm had passed, and the tyrant had dropped.

The air was thick with the scent of war and the weight of fate as Krishna stood before the divine chariot, its golden frame glistening under the sun. The pennants fluttered like the banners of destiny, and the wheels, once stilled by time, now awaited the ones who would ride them into legend.

With a knowing glance, Krishna turned to Bhima and Arjuna, his voice calm yet commanding. "Ascend," he said, his tone carrying the weight of inevitability. "This is no ordinary chariot. Once, Shakra and Vishnu rode it to battle against Taraka's forces. Its wheels have crushed demons beneath them, and its frame has thundered like storm clouds. With me as your charioteer, none shall stand before us."

The two warriors exchanged a look, understanding passing between them. They stepped onto the sacred vehicle, their mere presence amplifying its radiance. The citizens of Magadha, who had once trembled under Jarāsandha's rule, now stood spellbound. From the depths of the fortress, the liberated kings emerged—men who had once languished in despair, now free because of Krishna's will. Their gratitude was boundless, and their voices rose in unison. "Govinda! Slayer of oppression! You have broken the chains that bound us!"

They laid their treasures before him, gems that caught the light and gold that gleamed like dawn's first rays. Ever the enigma, Krishna accepted their offerings with a soft smile, neither seeking nor rejecting wealth but understanding the devotion behind their gestures. The chariot moved. The divine horses yoked with precision, surged forward, their hooves barely touching the ground. It was as if they were gliding upon the cosmos' breath. As Krishna took the reins, his thoughts shifted. "Garuda," he murmured.

The response was instantaneous. Like a pillar of celestial fire, Garuda descended from the heavens, his massive wings eclipsing the sun. With a piercing cry, he perched atop the flagstaff, his form blazing with a divine presence unseen by mortal eyes. The chariot seemed to recognize him, its golden frame humming with power. The citizens gasped. This was no ordinary departure. It was a spectacle of the heavens. The flagstaff, a beacon of divinity, did not bend before trees or falter before weapons. It stood untouched, untarnished, a symbol of Krishna's unwavering essence.

As they rode forth, the freed kings fell to their knees, their voices trembling with reverence. "Madhusudana, we were drowning in the abyss of Jarāsandha's cruelty. You have pulled us from the depths and into the light. Command us, O Vishnu! Whatever you desire, we shall fulfil!"

Krishna's gaze was unwavering, his answer simple yet absolute. "Maharaja Yudhishthira desires to perform the Rajasuya," he said. "A king who walks the path of dharma must ascend as sovereign emperor. Lend him your strength. Stand by him in this sacred endeavour."

There was no hesitation. The kings, still bearing the weight of their salvation, pledged their allegiance to the righteous Pandava. Amidst this, a young figure stepped forward: Sahadeva, son of Jarāsandha. His form trembled, but his spirit held firm as he bowed low before Krishna, offering gifts of gems and submission. "You have taken everything from me," his voice wavered, "yet in doing so, you have given me all that I could never have: honour, purpose, and a kingdom free of tyranny."

With his gaze softer now, Krishna reached out, placing a reassuring hand on Sahadeva's shoulder. "Fear not," he said. The past is but a river flowing into the ocean of fate. You shall rule Magadha with wisdom and strength, unshackled from the burdens of your Pitashree's rule." With that decree, Sahadeva bowed again, accepting his place in the grand design.

And so, as the chariot carried Krishna and the two Pandavas, Magadha bore witness to the dawn of a new era. The echoes of Jarāsandha's reign faded into history while the path to the Rajasuya Yajna shone ever brighter.



Note:

I have taken creative liberty in presenting Niyati's advice, as I felt that Yudhishthira harbours an inclination toward attaining Indra's Swarga, much like Raja Harishchandra. This is my interpretation, woven into the narrative to enhance its depth. The story will continue with this creative direction.

However, the original scriptures faithfully document everything concerning the Rajasuya Yajna—Yudhishthira's inner thoughts, Krishna's explanations to him, and Bhima's battle.

Bhima's method of killing Jarāsandha by breaking his spine is consistently recorded in authentic texts, whether in the BORI Critical Edition or various Puranas. Only in the Southern Recensions of the Mahabharata do we find the version where Bhima, following Krishna's counsel, tears Jarāsandha into two halves—an adaptation frequently depicted in television serials and films. Since my narrative adheres strictly to the original manuscripts, I have chosen not to incorporate that variation.